


Lowlier Than The Worms

by Snakespeare



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Character Study, Gen, Martin Blackwood Needs a Hug, The Magnus Archives Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26328730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snakespeare/pseuds/Snakespeare
Summary: “Loneliness is a terrible thing, Martin Blackwood.”--------After thirteen days trapped inside his apartment, Martin Blackwood and Jane Prentiss have a conversation.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	Lowlier Than The Worms

“Loneliness is a terrible thing, Martin Blackwood.”

Martin freezes.

The woman … no, the woman-shaped _thing_ outside his door doesn’t say anything else and Martin almost manages to convince himself that he imagined the voice. He reckons he’s earned a little auditory hallucination, after almost thirteen days of sleep deprivation, boredom and fear.

Even so, the soft squirming sounds outside his flat certainly seem to have risen in intensity and he can feel familiar nausea rising in the back of his throat. He puts aside his measly tinned dinner and gets about halfway out of his chair before slumping down again. There’s no point. It’s too dark to read but too early to attempt sleep, there’s still no electricity and there isn’t one single point in his claustrophobic little apartment where he can’t hear writhing.

So Martin sits at the kitchen table in the half-light of dusk and waits.

The sky is completely dark when he hears the slow, rasping voice again.

“You are not wanted. You are not missed. If you were, someone would have been here by now. People don’t go missing for days without leaving a hole, conspicuous in absence.

But no, you really are not missed at all. Not by your coworkers. Not by the friends you can’t even claim to have. And certainly not by your mothe-“

“Shut _up!_ Just shut up!”

To Martin’s great surprise, it shuts up. But the sudden quiet leaves no distraction from his rising panic at the thought of Prentiss knowing about his mother. He’s dragged her into danger now, that much is clear, and his stomach flips at the thought of what might happen to her. What might have already happened to her. A vision of her face, pocked and writhing, swims before his mind’s eye. Even in his imagination, she pins him with that disapproving stare that says, under no uncertain terms, that this is all _his_ fault. And she’s right, of course. She’s completely right. _Oh god, what has he done?_

“Though to love, when you are not loved in return, is worse than to simply be alone. Isn’t it?”

Martin covers his ears with his hands, feeling like a petulant child. The voice squirms its way into his head irregardless.

“You do love your mother, don’t you? Or is it duty that binds you to her, I wonder? Habit, even? Can you tell the difference anymore, between _playing_ the role of the dutiful son and actually being a part of a family?

…I think you can, actually. I think you are painfully aware of the difference.

I’m sorry, Martin Blackwood.”

Despite his fear, Martin can’t help but splutter indignantly. He lets his hands drop.

“You’re sorry? You’re sorry _!?_ You’ve trapped me here for _days_ and you’re trying to _kill_ me and _you’re sorry?”_

“Yes.”

“Oh well, so long as you’re _sorry_. That makes it all alright then, I suppose.”

“I was like you, once. I was –“

“No. Stop it.”

“-unloved.” Prentiss ignores the interruption. “Never again. You don’t have to be alone.”

“…are you…are you trying to pitch me on being eaten alive by worms?”

“You’ve given more of yourself away for less.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that. His burst of anger is fading as quickly as it came and he’s overwhelmed by the surreal, awful absurdity of his situation. There’s a slithering hive puppeteering a rotten corpse outside his door and it’s _sympathizing_ with him.

“You hear the song,” Prentiss continues. “Faintly. But you hear it, don’t you? Every time you close your eyes, you feel the crawling itch. Calling you home. Calling you to _be_ a home, if only you would open yourself up to it. We would love you in your entirety if you let us.

You call out to us too, Martin. Do you even know you’re doing it? We hear you, crying out in want of belonging. We do not need to see to understand. And neither do you. You are closer to us than you realize. You already know that love is need, as much as it is feeling. And you understand the primal raptures of being needed in return. And you are so, so close to deeper truths still. But you are _not_ needed and you are _not_ loved and we weep for you as we reach for you as we yearn to subsume your loneliness into our whole.”

The voice gives way to wet, meaty coughing fit. When Prentiss speaks again, she sounds unnervingly human and desperately sincere.

“Let me help you, Martin. I can’t bear your lonesome song. You are warm and waiting to be loved and we have so much to share with you.

It hurts. I will not lie to you. Being loved this thoroughly hurts and I am afraid even now. But love is sacrifice, as you know. And the pain pales in comparison to the euphoria of metamorphosis. My flesh is a shrine to the devotion that consumes it. You cannot imagine the comfort of carrying that which loves you within you. The exaltation! Promises and poetry and praise are carved into my very bones, though not in the dull forms that you would recognize them, and there is no room left in me for doubt.

You do not understand but you could _._ I could show you. I want to. _Please_. Beautiful, sad, lonely Martin Blackwood. Let me show you what it is to be loved.”

Prentiss stops. Martin thinks he hears a sigh, though it’s hard to distinguish from the worms’ susurrations. His tongue sits heavy in his mouth but there’s nothing he trusts himself to say. He simply sits there in the dark and waits.

She says nothing. He keeps waiting. What else can he do?

Martin doesn’t realize that sleep has claimed him until he wakes from it. He realizes, near instantly, that Prentiss is gone. There is no knocking, no voice, no musty smell or slithering. He’ll check, of course, before he attempts to leave. He’ll be cautious. But still, he is certain that he’s alone now. He can feel it. He’s properly, truly alone, for the first time in over a week.

A bark of relieved laughter slips out of his mouth and it’s like a dam breaking. He laughs and laughs and laughs until his eyes are wet and his chest is heaving and his throat is sore. He can’t be bothered trying to curtail his hysterics. It’s not like there’s anybody here to hear him. It’s not like anybody cares.

No. Martin Blackwood is completely alone. Again.

**Author's Note:**

> Jane Prentiss, backreading through Martin's texts and reading all the sad poetry in his Notes app: this man... it's free real estate


End file.
